Sheryl Crow deserves a lot more respect than she gets. For one, she’s a self-made artist, having booked to L.A. from St. Louis, where she was a schoolteacher, with a song and a prayer, slowly ascending to superstar status from the rank of lowly backup singer. For two, she makes songs that sound great on the radio, unabashedly. For three, she’s a fucking bombshell in the most traditional, ex-cheerleader sense of the word (Crow actually used to rock the pom-poms as a teen growing up in small-town Missouri). Points two and three are probably why she doesn’t get more love in snootier circles. But methinks there’s another factor at play, which is entirely Crow’s fault: She lets queefs like John Mayer and James Blunt open for her, presumably to fill larger venues. Here’s a suggestion: Why not have nobody (or a relative nobody who’ll play for peanuts) open for you, play a smaller venue, and keep all the cheddar for yourself. But then, maybe Crow’s a cougar who preys on nymphomaniac male soloists. If so, more power to her.

Sat., Aug. 30, 7 p.m., 2008